Behind Blue Eyes
by reanwood
Summary: A possible vision of the future in the Mega Shows, inspired by the Limp Bizkit song "Behind Blues Eyes." One-shot songfic.


**Disclaimer: The cover song of 'Behind Blue Eyes' belongs to Limp Bizkit, the original belongs to…someone else. I don't really know. And Protoman to CapCom. So don't sue me, kay? ^^**

_No one knows what it's like  
To be the bad man  
To be the sad man  
Behind blue eyes  
  
_

The raven-haired youth staggered in the rain, people shoving past him, pushing him aside. His long yellow scarf whipped violently in the strong winds, and with nimble fingers he pulled his black trench coat tighter against him, giving him a false sense of warmth.

_And no one knows  
What it's like to be hated  
To be faded to telling only lies_

Someone shouted a curse at him as he fought his way past, but his mind did not register the word. He stumbled onwards, his wild hair clinging to his pale face. An elder lady looked on in pity, wondering if he was hurt. And maybe he was, but his face showed no emotion.

_  
But my dreams they aren't as empty  
As my conscious seems to be  
I have hours, only lonely  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free_

He deftly walked out in the streets, not batting a dark eyelash as horns blared and drivers yelled for him to move. More eyes shifted to the strange boy crossing a busy street, but as he reached the other side, his face was still blank. No one could see his eyes, hidden behind dark shades.

_  
No one knows what it's like  
To feel these feelings  
Like I do, and I blame you!  
No one bites back as hard  
On their anger  
None of my pain woe  
Can show through_

A young girl pointed towards him, tugging at her mother's leg, inquiring if he was injured. Her mother told her he was probably just sick, and the boy's emotionless gaze flicked to them, standing side by side in the cold rain, hand in hand, waiting for the bus. No one would ever stand by him like that, hold his hand. Assure him that he was just sick. He turned his gaze away, and continued to his destination._  
  
_

_But my dreams they aren't as empty  
As my conscious seems to be  
I have hours, only lonely  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free_

He ran a red gloved hand through his dark hair, wishing that he could feel the dampness. He stumbled past a train station, people grumbling and shoving him aside as they hurried to get to there destination. He said nothing, even as a large man shoved him roughly against a wall in his hurry to get past. No, the young boy kept walking, hands in his pockets, gaze down.

_   
No one knows what its like  
To be mistreated, to be defeated  
Behind blue eyes  
No one know how to say  
That they're sorry and don't worry  
I'm not telling lies_

Some thought he was sick; others injured, and still others mentally ill. But it was doubtful even he could tell you why he staggered so blindly through the crowds, gaze down, being shoved aside so carelessly and never saying anything in protest. Not even he could tell you why his hands shook, and his shoulders quivered._  
  
_

_But my dreams they aren't as empty  
As my conscious seems to be  
I have hours, only lonely  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free_

Finally, he stopped in front of an iron gate, staring hard at the sign. The gates groaned in sadness as he pushed them open, wandering into the dark fields. Almost no one stood around, and those who did where quiet. His back straightened as he approached one small corner of the field, almost invisible. It lay hidden between two thriving bushes, barely visible to the public and uncaring eye. 

_  
No one knows what its like  
To be the bad man, to be the sad man  
Behind blue eyes._

Staring down at the tombstone, tears suddenly filled in the boy's eyes. He ripped off his dark sunglasses, uncovering two deep blue eyes; his tears mixing with rain as they streamed down his cheeks. He crumpled to his knees in front of the small cross, staring at the name blankly. He let his eyes travel downwards, reading the words he knew so well. 'Beloved father'. Again, he looked up at the name, as if he couldn't accept that it was there. But it was, as it would always be: Albert W. Wily.

Protoman stood suddenly, replacing his dark sunglasses and turning away from the grave. He walked away then, his hands in his pockets again, eyes down. Beautiful, soul-filled blue eyes that were doomed to be filled with regret, always.


End file.
